fic: Between Nietzsche and 2:15
Title: Between Nietzsche and 2:15
Fandom: Honeydew Syndrome
Pairing: CharlesJay
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: M
Summary: For oceansex as a very belated Birthday and general appreciation gift. What Jay doesn’t know about getting over Charles.
2:15. Library.
What Jay doesn’t know about getting over Charles: Charles is a little like the chapter he’s reading in some self-lauding Nietzsche: “Why I Am So Clever”. He’s a smartass, basically. If he’s using a slightly worn at the edges eight of hearts card as a bookmark held between the two fingers folded over the spine of the book, he’s smirking about it.
“I'm trying to come up with my own method, here,” Jay says, though not as boldly as he planned it in his head. Like, two seconds ago.
Charles's gaze flickers past his arm - barring Jay into the corner of the philosophy section - to the book Jay was reaching for. Jay's finger idly wrestles with the tab on the spine.
"You're going to read Sarte to figure out how to get in my pants? Nice," he says almost sardonically.
Jay feels his face heat up and sputters a half negative. "N-not exactly."
Charles puts down his book, leans in just that much more.
"We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact," Jay recites.
Charles's left eyebrow meets his hairline. "I think I know what you are. So the question is... what do you want?"
It isn't demanding or soft at all. Jay thinks he should be pissed at how much Charles is enjoying it.
"I don't know."
Charles grins, opened his book again, but doesn't move. "Exactly." When he looks up again he asks too mildly, "Then why did you quit smoking?"
Jay shrugs. "Thought you'd stop giving me that look."
"The one that says 'I'll laugh if you're diagnosed with lung cancer'?"
"If that's what you think every time you catch me around a corner. Sure."
What Jay doesn't know about getting over Charles: He never decided to.
Charles is now reading a chapter called "Why I Am Destiny" when he stops Jay from maneuvering out of the corner, that smirk still in place.
"The true man wants two things: danger and play," he says, deftly shelving the book in his hands.
"Okay...?" Jay says eloquently, having no idea what he's just agreed to. Charles grins a devilish grin, tugging Jay through the Art section and past the video section, where he grabs a movie at random, thrusting it into Jay’s hands.
The librarian scans his library card and hands him a key without a flicker of interest.
There are three movie screening rooms in the library. The projectors are new but the rooms are pretty shabby, only seating six people at most in their beat up leather chairs ripped from the downtown theatre. The videos range from historical documentary to Shakespeare film adaptations to Math and Science demos.
Charles pushes A Streetcar Named Desire into the VHS and Vivian Leigh and Kim Hunter’s faces flicker over the projector screen. Charles leans over Jay, smirking. Considering. Jay wants to be irked at the calm nonchalance he’s displaying.
Charles kisses back the way he does everything else, with a subtle jackassery in that he dominates without dispute.
“Enough danger?” he asks then, lowering himself onto Jay’s lap, pushing back a heavy stand of dirty blonde hair to better nail his gaze to the fluttering pulse at Jay’s neck. The danger lies in what will happen if they’re caught like this.
Jay replays this later in slow motion: hands tugging softly at his clothes, a very familiar smirk against his skin. Charles undoes a clasp and a zipper with the straightforwardness of “may i feel said he”, and Jay is actually ashamed at how his back arches at the mere suggestion of that touch, very real against the faint crease of skin that dips into his underwear.
“This is where we can play,” Charles murmurs with a sharp gasp for air, pulling pack from a kiss that lasted through the silence between Stanley and Blanche. His sweater tumbles loose onto the seat beside them and he suddenly, but only for the barest second as he takes Jay’s hand and presses it to the center of his chest, less of an asshole. Charles isn’t soft, but the expanse of his torso is a flat map in relief. Jay traces his fingertips over collarbone, pectorals, abdomen, releasing a little groan of shock when the muscles contract and Charles leans into him again, darkening his mind with irregular patterns along his neck. There is no subtlety in the kisses now, but an urgency that is just as dangerous as being caught like this.
Charles wraps his hand around Jay’s coming arousal, shifting his weight on his lap slowly, seeming to enjoy the way his knees shake, how he presses his palms into the small of Charles’s back, tentatively pushing his fingers downward. Because they are boys, it makes sense for Charles to know how to stroke his thumb over the tip of the swollen member, how to roughly coax him into a soft, thrusting rhythm, tease the private place underneath with the pad of his finger.
“Do you want me inside of you?” he asks as Jay floods them with warmth, biting down to break skin at Charles’s shoulder to keep from crying out. He can barely nod, shuddering with loss when Charles stands, dropping his pants. Strangely, he’s the one that feels naked. Charles smirks, touching himself until he’s heavy, leaning over Jay to slide a knee between his legs, shifting them apart.
“Don’t tell Josh I took this,” he says, ripping open a small package he withdrawals from a pocket on the floor. Jay feels like Metis’s face now, or the last time he saw it, half incredulous and a little content, will be his face soon, because the back of the seat pushes into his back, Charles spreading his thighs a little farther to settle there. The rhythm that they find now is not unlike the one born from Charles’s hand stroking along the pulsing shaft of his cock, only now it’s Charles driving into him a bit at a time until, ashamedly, Jay starts to feel a throbbing of alertness.
Onscreen, the black and white flickers to a fade. Charles relaxes into the next seat, a hand lazily sliding out from under Jay’s shirt to dress himself.
“Did I give you what you wanted?” his voice is raw and hushed after moaning into the last kiss with barely real ardor.
Jay retrieves something from his back pocket - a new deck of playing cards - as his answer. Charles smirks and opens it, drawing the eight of hearts with a soft smile, folding Jay’s hand over it.
Fandom: Honeydew Syndrome
Pairing: CharlesJay
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: M
Summary: For oceansex as a very belated Birthday and general appreciation gift. What Jay doesn’t know about getting over Charles.
2:15. Library.
What Jay doesn’t know about getting over Charles: Charles is a little like the chapter he’s reading in some self-lauding Nietzsche: “Why I Am So Clever”. He’s a smartass, basically. If he’s using a slightly worn at the edges eight of hearts card as a bookmark held between the two fingers folded over the spine of the book, he’s smirking about it.
“I'm trying to come up with my own method, here,” Jay says, though not as boldly as he planned it in his head. Like, two seconds ago.
Charles's gaze flickers past his arm - barring Jay into the corner of the philosophy section - to the book Jay was reaching for. Jay's finger idly wrestles with the tab on the spine.
"You're going to read Sarte to figure out how to get in my pants? Nice," he says almost sardonically.
Jay feels his face heat up and sputters a half negative. "N-not exactly."
Charles puts down his book, leans in just that much more.
"We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact," Jay recites.
Charles's left eyebrow meets his hairline. "I think I know what you are. So the question is... what do you want?"
It isn't demanding or soft at all. Jay thinks he should be pissed at how much Charles is enjoying it.
"I don't know."
Charles grins, opened his book again, but doesn't move. "Exactly." When he looks up again he asks too mildly, "Then why did you quit smoking?"
Jay shrugs. "Thought you'd stop giving me that look."
"The one that says 'I'll laugh if you're diagnosed with lung cancer'?"
"If that's what you think every time you catch me around a corner. Sure."
What Jay doesn't know about getting over Charles: He never decided to.
Charles is now reading a chapter called "Why I Am Destiny" when he stops Jay from maneuvering out of the corner, that smirk still in place.
"The true man wants two things: danger and play," he says, deftly shelving the book in his hands.
"Okay...?" Jay says eloquently, having no idea what he's just agreed to. Charles grins a devilish grin, tugging Jay through the Art section and past the video section, where he grabs a movie at random, thrusting it into Jay’s hands.
The librarian scans his library card and hands him a key without a flicker of interest.
There are three movie screening rooms in the library. The projectors are new but the rooms are pretty shabby, only seating six people at most in their beat up leather chairs ripped from the downtown theatre. The videos range from historical documentary to Shakespeare film adaptations to Math and Science demos.
Charles pushes A Streetcar Named Desire into the VHS and Vivian Leigh and Kim Hunter’s faces flicker over the projector screen. Charles leans over Jay, smirking. Considering. Jay wants to be irked at the calm nonchalance he’s displaying.
Charles kisses back the way he does everything else, with a subtle jackassery in that he dominates without dispute.
“Enough danger?” he asks then, lowering himself onto Jay’s lap, pushing back a heavy stand of dirty blonde hair to better nail his gaze to the fluttering pulse at Jay’s neck. The danger lies in what will happen if they’re caught like this.
Jay replays this later in slow motion: hands tugging softly at his clothes, a very familiar smirk against his skin. Charles undoes a clasp and a zipper with the straightforwardness of “may i feel said he”, and Jay is actually ashamed at how his back arches at the mere suggestion of that touch, very real against the faint crease of skin that dips into his underwear.
“This is where we can play,” Charles murmurs with a sharp gasp for air, pulling pack from a kiss that lasted through the silence between Stanley and Blanche. His sweater tumbles loose onto the seat beside them and he suddenly, but only for the barest second as he takes Jay’s hand and presses it to the center of his chest, less of an asshole. Charles isn’t soft, but the expanse of his torso is a flat map in relief. Jay traces his fingertips over collarbone, pectorals, abdomen, releasing a little groan of shock when the muscles contract and Charles leans into him again, darkening his mind with irregular patterns along his neck. There is no subtlety in the kisses now, but an urgency that is just as dangerous as being caught like this.
Charles wraps his hand around Jay’s coming arousal, shifting his weight on his lap slowly, seeming to enjoy the way his knees shake, how he presses his palms into the small of Charles’s back, tentatively pushing his fingers downward. Because they are boys, it makes sense for Charles to know how to stroke his thumb over the tip of the swollen member, how to roughly coax him into a soft, thrusting rhythm, tease the private place underneath with the pad of his finger.
“Do you want me inside of you?” he asks as Jay floods them with warmth, biting down to break skin at Charles’s shoulder to keep from crying out. He can barely nod, shuddering with loss when Charles stands, dropping his pants. Strangely, he’s the one that feels naked. Charles smirks, touching himself until he’s heavy, leaning over Jay to slide a knee between his legs, shifting them apart.
“Don’t tell Josh I took this,” he says, ripping open a small package he withdrawals from a pocket on the floor. Jay feels like Metis’s face now, or the last time he saw it, half incredulous and a little content, will be his face soon, because the back of the seat pushes into his back, Charles spreading his thighs a little farther to settle there. The rhythm that they find now is not unlike the one born from Charles’s hand stroking along the pulsing shaft of his cock, only now it’s Charles driving into him a bit at a time until, ashamedly, Jay starts to feel a throbbing of alertness.
Onscreen, the black and white flickers to a fade. Charles relaxes into the next seat, a hand lazily sliding out from under Jay’s shirt to dress himself.
“Did I give you what you wanted?” his voice is raw and hushed after moaning into the last kiss with barely real ardor.
Jay retrieves something from his back pocket - a new deck of playing cards - as his answer. Charles smirks and opens it, drawing the eight of hearts with a soft smile, folding Jay’s hand over it.